Actions and Words
by Guardian-381
Summary: FF6: After the fight with 024 in the Magitek Factory, Celes reflects on the extent to which the people she fights with seem able to trust her.


Author's Notes: I'd like to begin by acknowledging the work by Lassarina Aoibhell entitled "Hope Is A Fading Dream". This story shares some elements with that one, and I would like to go on record as saying that mine is intended simply as another take on the Magitek Factory sequence, and not a copy, a parody, or anything else of the like. Lassarina's portrayal of Celes is well done, and I have no wish to overwrite or overshadow her work: in writing this story, I sought only to illuminate another aspect of Celes' personality for myself. Hopefully, I will have succeeded in doing so for you, my readers, as well.

Those of you who enjoy this story might want to take a look at my other Celes fic, which is called "The Purity of Her Anguish".

Finally, reviews are always welcome.

Dedication: As before, to Snow Duchess and Elessar, for giving me the chance to borrow Celes' voice.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Final Fantasy VI. In addition, I do not claim sole rights to the idea of retelling the story of Celes' departure from the Magitek Factory.

Actions and Words

This is where I came from.

This is where I was created, here amid the soul-draining glass capsules and barren girders. The cracks in these floors devoured whatever tears I cried as they brought me here: my blood, or hers, if there was any, dripped into the void below this catwalk. Perhaps, once the infusion was complete, her body followed it.

This is where I came from, and yet I no longer belong here.

I look to my right, and see Locke, his Gauntleted hand hanging near the hilt of his Thunder Blade: he gives me a wink, and I look past him, at Edgar's elegant Gold Armour and Cyan's perpetual frown. There have been times, mostly during the tempering heat of battle, that I have felt as though I belonged with them. At the moment, I am not so sure of our camaraderie, but one thing is more than certain: I feel closer to them than I do to the Empire's inhumanity.

We leave the broken android which guarded the inner sanctum of the Factory behind, and I am suddenly surrounded by Espers. They float hypnotically in the capsules, suspended in a state that I cannot define as either alertness or sleep. Though their sometimes-monstrous faces betray no expression, I can hear them: their whimpers, their pleas, their threats, their curses, their vows. I can feel their hate, their rage, their frustration, and it tears through me like Whirlwind magic.

Still, I walk on, and no one realizes that I feel anything. That, at least, has not changed since my days as a General.

The controls which operate the capsules are just up ahead. My wrist quivers as I reach up to touch them, and I come dangerously close to hesitating. But then Edgar is looking at me a bit more closely, and I notice that Cyan's hand has yet to leave his sword hilt. I am reminded not only that this is what we came here to do, the task that Ramuh paid for with his life, but also that I will never belong with them, simply because they will never allow it. For better, or for worse, I am an Imperial, and no matter what I say, it will change nothing. Actions speak louder than words, and I destroyed a city in cold blood. My repentance only hurts my cause: after all, who but a fool would trust a traitor?

I press the flashing red button, and the Espers stop moving. One of them says something, and suddenly they too are mere shards of crystal, six beautiful corpses to add to the six in our possession. Then Cid is there, and he learns their secret immediately. I am accused of inciting an uprising, and say nothing. What is there to say?

I am all too familiar with being the defendant at a witch's trial.

Kefka arrives next: he is armed, as always, with minions, and his lunatic cackling severs the last thread of tolerance between myself and the three men behind me. Cyan brandishes his sword: I can hear the click of Edgar's armour as he reaches for his Chain Saw. Even Locke moves against me, though his betrayal is but a whisper of his sword on his belt, barely even there. I would never have heard it if I hadn't been listening for it.

But I was, and so I do.

I am familiar with Magitek weaponry: I know just when to dodge, and in what direction, and so I am the only one who is spared being struck by Kefka's soldiers. As soon as the storm of energy has dissipated, I climb back over the guardrail, shake my hair from my eyes, and turn to face Kefka. As an afterthought, I tear Kirin's Magicite from my wristband and throw it at the spot where the Returners fell. It bounces off Cyan's armour and slides to rest against Locke's hand. I hope it will teach him of my sincerity, in exactly the way that my words never could. I hope, one day, he will see me not only for who I am, but who I have always tried to be.

I am unsure why this matters to me, and I seem to have run out of time to find out.

The Magitek soldiers are charging their weapons again, but Kefka holds up a hand to stop them. I suppose he doesn't want to chance damaging the Magicite. For a moment, we stare at each other: he, the deranged circus clown, and I, the powerless excuse for a general. It is bitterly ironic that he, who has yet to give a single thought to serving the Empire, represents it as my opponent.

In his case, at least, it seems that poisoned actions do not speak nearly as loud as honeyed words.

I'm not sure what I mean to do, as I raise my hands over my head and summon my stolen power once more. I am frustrated, and angry, as those Espers were in their final moments. I want everything to be simple, as it was before the Returners, as it must have been before the Magitek infusion. I want to feel a part of something again. I want to belong somewhere.

Most of all, I want Kefka to vanish, and take his pitiful mockery of my Empire with him.

The magic answers my desire: I can feel it, charging the air between us. Behind me, I hear Locke groan, and the swish of leather on fabric as one of his gloves brushes his bandanna. I slow down the flow of magic until I am sure he must have recovered enough of his awareness to watch me: then, I complete the spell, and the world grows misty. I do not look back.

Maybe now, they'll believe in my loyalty. They couldn't before, simply because I told them it existed, but now they have the proof that Sabin hunted with every searching glance, and Cyan crushed beneath each contemptuous glare.

In the light of my actions, my words are redundant.


End file.
